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He looked at her—this small, strong woman who had found a baby in a spaceship and decided to love him. She didn’t see the cape. She saw the boy who scraped his knee, who cried when a calf was stillborn, who needed to be reminded that he was allowed to be human.
He washed his hands at the sink, the water pressure a pathetic trickle compared to the force he could summon, and took his place beside her at the counter. For a while, they worked in silence. The only sounds were the soft thump of the rolling pin and the distant drone of a tractor on a neighboring farm. clarkandmartha
And Martha Kent was in the kitchen, humming a tune from the old radio, her hands buried in a mound of dough. He looked at her—this small, strong woman who
He was just Clark. And Martha was just his mom. And that was more than enough. He washed his hands at the sink, the
Clark smiled, a real smile, the kind that felt strange on his face after months of boardroom glare and alien invasions. He stepped inside, the familiar smell of yeast and wood polish wrapping around him like a blanket.
“You know,” she said, nudging him. “Your father always said the strongest thing you could be was kind. He’d be proud.”